


I wrote it all for you.

by snortingmaiko



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: AU, Angst, Cellist, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Maiko Week, Sad Ending, Sadism, Writers, alternative universe, maiko
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:15:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27220027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snortingmaiko/pseuds/snortingmaiko
Summary: Sometimes you just have to accept the way things are. We always say that we write our own stories, but really, stories write themselves.Destiny entwines the fate of ones who lack hope. So they build their own hope. And then destiny encases their future in that of love. But there is no love. So they make their own.When there is nothing, you can only know if there is something. Look close. Listen. When I cry out, call back to me. I'll grasp your hand and you'll kiss mine. Two masked bodies and you're the other. Be my muse.I'll write it all for you.
Relationships: Mai/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	I wrote it all for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this first chapter, a character named "Yuuma" is present. Yuuma is an original character I completely made up solely for the plot. She will only be in the first chapter (at least that's what I've decided for now, though, things change). Maiko won't happen until towards the end of this chapter. As of October 26, 2020, this fic is in it's early stages and I'm nowhere near done with the writing. But since it is maiko week, I thought I'd release a chapter anyways. This fic is going to be an AU of mai and zuko where mai is a cellist and zuko is a writer (except make it as sad and angsty as you can). Bear with me on the mistakes, I'm too lazy to put extraneous amounts of effort into my writing. This fic is far from perfect and I'm well aware, just lazy (sorry). 
> 
> Enjoy.

_ She was like a puddle. The leftovers. Just seeping down into the concrete, laying there for anyone to step on. But she was beautiful too. Her skin clear and glassy, her eyes clouded with tears — shiny, and her voice, a deep rasp like soft toes pressing into damp sand.The sun flickers and fragments of gold sputter, the puddle becomes smaller and smaller. While the rest of the world brightens and their light becomes greater, she sinks and dims. They step on her and her light disappears, the ravishing reflection of stars that spoke when you looked at the reflections on her skin — they were gone. She was dark and clouded, but she was still so alluring to me. Even when her ripples of breath weakened and each second became heavier — when the world walked further and could barely see her — I saw her. I heard the soft beat of her heart, screaming.  _

  
  


_ “I’m still here. Please, someone listen to me. Someone, love me.”  _

  
  


_ The steady beat that thumps and thumps is almost gone — it’s so quiet, you can only hear it if you listen. So I listen.  _

  
  


_ And I love, too.  _

  
  


———————

  
  


“Zuko, you’re going with me right?” sung out a petite woman, her hands long and lanky, swept across the scarred man's face. 

  
  


Zuko turned away, brushing off her hand, “Yuuma, I really don’t want to — royal balls just aren’t something I find leisurely.” 

  
  


Yuuma tossed down her mouth, a forced pout sprouting on her face. She took a breath in, huffing before she reached out her arm again. “Zuko, my love, please,” she caressed her hand back and forth against his cheek, dragging a pink nail up to his scar, “For me. Go for me.”

  
  


Zuko took a breath, studying Yumma’s eyes.They were an inky black, solid and stygian yet they reflected such brightness. When you looked deep into them, you could get lost in them — reading her story. Her eyes were like galaxies, each star told a dream. You could read who she was, her story and what had happened to her with a mere glance. Zuko blinked, focusing on all of her features, thinking. She was beautiful. From a glance, she was well put together, tidy and dainty. Her hair, dark and swathy, draped down her shoulders, stopping right above her chest. On windier days, her hair would float off in the breeze — flying like a raven. But there was more to her — something spunky and sanguine. Zuko knew that he should like her. Didn’t everyone? She was perfect. 

  
  


But she just didn’t understand. 

  
  


When he showed her the broken and scarred side, she just blinked and kissed him — she didn’t get it, and she didn’t want to. The world was a pitchblack hole with no end — at least that’s how it was to Zuko. For Yuuma, though, the world was a jewelry box that she cranked up each morning, a tiny ballerina spinning round and round as music fluttered out. She awoke each day in the early morning, blood enlaced with thrill and happiness — she was ready to pursue each dream, to make a wish on a new star. When Zuko awoke each day, it was late and even when the sun shone, a cloud blurred his vision. Unlike Yuuma, he was ready to crush the stars. The way he saw it, the stars were just flecks of plasma — drifting around as a distraction. The stars held no meaning, they held false promises in an already broken world. Dreams didn’t come true. The world was hell. 

  
  


For Yuuma, though, the world was heaven. 

  
  


—————————

  
  


**Nocturne No.2 In E Flat, Op.9 No.2**

It started out soft and simple, a light flick against the piano. And moments later, the music was twirling round and round the room. A deep, pulchritudinous sound ricocheted against the sculpted walls of the room. The sound — the story — it was indescribable. Zuko swayed in the crowd, clutching onto Yuuma as they danced back and forth. He focused on the song, on the story. And his eyes, they drifted somewhere far off — to the storyteller. A cellist. A beautiful one. 

  
  


Her hands shook, vibrating back and forth against the fingerboard of the cello. When she shifted to a higher note, her face scrunched and tears clouded her vision. With each bow stroke, she swayed her body, her arms trembling the slightest bit. She poured out all that she had — each word, each note — it was her story. It was her cry for help. Begging and begging, screaming and screaming,  _ somebody listen to me. Hear my story. Hear my loneliness. Love me. Show me love. _

  
  


And as Zuko swayed back and forth, his leg dragging the slightest bit, his head tilted upwards, eyes heavy and entranced, he whispered, “She’s beautiful.”

  
  


Yuuma clutched Zuko’s arm tighter, pulling him closer as a smile widened on her face and her mouth flushed with eccentric words, “Oh, Zuko! Are you confessing your love to me?”

  
  


“Yuuma, that’s not what I meant. It’s not like that. I just — I don’t know.”

  
  


The woman, the one who was strong and composed, the one who denounced to the room her authority, the one who awoke to write the day instead of letting the day write itself — she broke. Her hands dropped from Zuko’s shoulders, her eyes blurred by tears, and her voice trembling — like a balloon filled with water, she was just threatening to burst. 

  
  


“It never is. You never know. It’s  _ never  _ like  _ that _ . I don’t get it,” She paused for a moment, her words dragging out and she reached a hand up to Zuko’s face, but she quickly dropped it, “Aren’t I everything you could want? Aren’t I more than enough?” 

  
  


Zuko stared at Yuuma — looking directly into her eyes, reading through the stars that were hidden within the galaxies of her pupil, “It’s exactly that. You’re so much more than enough. You’re perfect, so perfect. It’s not that. I just — you just, don’t get me. I’m trying to love you, but I just don’t.”

  
  


“Why not?” her voice was shuddering, her words erratic and dragging, “Why don’t you love me? Zuko, Zuko please just love me,” she beat her hands against her chest, tears falling, “Just love me.”

  
  


People turned to stare, their eyes widened at the sight of Yuuma crying. Their ball gowns and suits made of velvet, chins held high, jewels glimmering against their skin — they looked so established. And to see Yuuma there — breaking down, showing all her weakness, showing all of her pain and sadness — it was disgraceful. They all turned away, faces painted with disapproval. 

  
  


“Yuuma. You knew I didn’t love you. I’ve told you this before — I never wanted or intended for you to keep trying to start something. I kept trying to end this, to keep things like they could’ve been. But you keep trying and trying when I’ve already told you how I feel,” Zuko closed his eyes, scrunching his face, “I’m sorry Yuuma. I really am.”

  
  


Yuuma glanced down, her face stricken with so many emotions — she was like a rock painted in so many colors, and when you broke her open, a beautiful rose crystal was glimmering. She was too beautiful. She was too perfect. And she was so much more than enough.

  
  


It wasn’t who Yuuma was — and it wasn’t how she looked either. She just wasn’t meant for him. And they both knew it, deep down, they each knew it more than anything. 

  
  


Yuuma, she was a special person. She cared for others — and she cared about how they felt or what they thought. She cared so much, too much. No — that’s not it. She cared too much about people who didn’t care  _ enough _ about  _ her _ . And she always got hurt. She knew she would, too.

  
  


——————————

  
  


**Silent Woods, Op.68/5**

  
  


It had been a few hours since Yuuma had broken down in the ballroom. Zuko hadn’t known what to do except say sorry over and over again. Since then, the room had a heavy presence — like every individual in the room was on the verge of just, shattering. The room was glass and was beginning to crack — tensions were high and the cellist knew. Silent Woods. Perfect. Chaos. 

  
  


Dingy trees that rise above discolored grounds, a moon that’s round but not quite, skys completely starless, and too much wind. The winds quicken and quicken, the air becomes brash — until suddenly, there are tears. 

  
  


Her hands murmured sweet lullabies to the room, each note like a fairy tale one's mother would whisper before they slept. The piano had a somber tone, light yet so heavy. Each note dragged but was punctual. The room, all of the bejewelled people, they tilted their heads at an angle, hooked arms with another and danced. Bodies were swaying, some wavered. When the music dropped and the notes became rickety and haunted, it seemed as though the room was possessed. Each body swayed and swayed, some faces smudged with tears. 

  
  


“Zuko.”

  
  


“Yes?”

  
  


“I’m moving.”

  
  


Zuko looked up from his shoes but continued to sway back and forth with Yuuma. He studied her face, trying to determine if she was being serious or not. Before he could respond, Yuuma continued, swaying her body a bit faster. 

  
  


“I’ve known for a while now. My father got a job somewhere far off — one of those rich and lively countries.” 

  
  


“Oh.” 

  
  


“I—I’m sorry for tonight. No, I’m sorry for everything. I always thought that things would be different, but I’m at a point that I’ve realized you can’t write your own story — stories write themselves. I’ve always tried to force things, to write them my way, but it’s never the way it’s  _ supposed  _ to be. Destiny will come to me. And Zuko, I know that you’re not mine. And while it hurts,” for a moment her voice shuddered, and she turned her face down, “I know that my destiny will find me.” 

  
  


“I’ll miss you.” 

  
  


Yuuma smiled, “I know you will.” 

  
  


The two swayed back and forth for the remainder of the song, Yuuma’s head buried in Zuko’s shoulder. 

  
  


“Remember that day at the gala, when we talked about soulmates?” she continued speaking, not waiting for Zuko’s response, “In my head, I had fantasized this dreamy idea of us falling in love. I dreamed that my life would be easy and perfect — that it’d be a fairy tale. I thought I’d fall in love with you, my best friend. And I thought you’d fall in love with me too. But I’ve realized,” she studied his face, reaching a hand up to brush away a hair, “We’re not meant to be. And what I want and dream is so far off from what you dream.” 

  
  


“Yuuma, you’ll always be my best friend — no matter what happens between us or where you go, I’ll always care about you.” 

  
  


Tears were streaming down Yuuma’s face, but she smiled nonetheless. “I know you will. You always have.” 

  
  


The two danced in silence for a while longer, basking in one another's presence. Zuko and Yuuma both knew this was probably the last time they’d see each other. And it was better that way, for the both of them. Yuuma and Zuko had been childhood friends — best friends. And their friendship was a valuable one, but at the same time — they were at such different points in their lives, they each had such different plans for the future. Yuuma needed a lover, she needed someone to live her life out with in pure bliss. Zuko, though, he needed love, but he needed  _ connection.  _ He needed someone who  _ understood  _ and loved him for the broken bits too. 

  
  


That night, something both Zuko and Yuuma learned was that sometimes it's the perfect person but not the  _ right  _ person. 

  
  


Sometimes you just have to accept the way things are — quit running against the breeze, flow with it. Fly off. Be free. 

  
  


———————————

  
  


**Pavane, Op.50**

  
  


Her hands trembled, tired and worn, but she still played more and more. Words had failed her and so now she resorted to music. Note after note. Song after song. It was an endless cry, an endless scream out. 

  
  


Zuko felt tears fall as he walked. Each footstep screeching so loudly. The image of Yuuma whispering goodbye before leaving was so vividly painted in his mind. She was his best friend — and now, she was gone. He felt as though all attachment to his past, his childhood and memories, disintegrated. When Yuuma left, a piece of Zuko was taken with her. And now, it was time to start a new chapter. 

  
  


She closed her eyes, focusing on the intonation of her notes, vibrating her hand slowly. She put more pressure into her bow, sounding more noise out of the strings. Each sound that her cello spoke hit the walls, projecting further and further out. The cello was a voice and the room was a speaker. And the woman, those were her words. 

  
  


As Zuko neared closer to the ballroom, a sweet sound spoke out. It was light and beautiful at moments and at others, the noise was deep and scorched. The sound made him envision roses — how they were so beautiful but entangled with so many thorns. 

  
  


Sometimes the most beautiful things were the most dangerous. 

  
  


Zuko entered the ballroom, taking in the tall ceiling that curved into a dome at the top. Podium-like structures stood around the room, gold candle holders with lit flames perched on the structures. In the center of the room, a gorgeous crystal chandelier hung low, it looked like a ballgown tipped upside down — fragments of glass and diamond mirrored light from the window behind it all across the room. Beneath the chandelier, a woman sat in a dark wood chair, her face masked by hair that was the color of onyx. Her body swayed slowly with each bow stroke, her head bobbing back and forth. She was wearing an emerald tinted dress, the velvet material loosely clung to her body and draped down her legs, a trail of the fabric circled around her chair. 

  
  


For a few moments, Zuko sat watching the woman — entranced. There was something so magically endearing about the moment, the way the light hit the room and mirrored across the woman, her hands trembling, deep and drearing notes sounding back and forth. When he listened to her play, it was like reading a story — he heard who the woman was, how she felt, and what she yearned for. 

  
  


When the song began to slow and the notes quieted, Zuko stepped closer to the woman. Each note turned into another step — and soon, their eyes locked. 

  
  


“Will you play me a song?”

  
  


——————————

  
  


**Les Contes d'Hoffmann / Act 3: Barcarolle**

  
  


“Oh.”

  
  


The woman glanced up, a small slip of indescribable noise escaping from her lips. She blinked, studying the man standing before her. His face was very sculpted — he looked somewhat like a statue, but his features were even sharper. From a glance, he was like a blade, face poised, cheekbones struck, hair loose and dark. His eyes, though, were a pure color, golden. Mai was convinced that his eyes were fragments of the sun, enlaced with little bits of gold and something warm — maybe honey.

  
  


“Hello. You played at the ball last night, right?”

  
  


The woman glanced down at her toes, clutching her cello close to her body. “I suppose.”

  
  


Zuko cleared his throat, running a hand through his unruly hair. “When you played, I imagined two masked bodies, one reaching an arm out and the other grabbing on. They held hands and with the other arm, took off their masks. They were themselves.”

  
  


She nodded. “One cried out for someone to listen,” she paused, setting down her cello and standing up, “And the other listened.”

  
  


Zuko opened his mouth to speak more, to say something, but he couldn’t find his words. 

  
  


“Maybe I’ll see you at the gala tomorrow night,” She said, her voice remaining steady, an emotionless tone.

  
  


Zuko nodded, he hadn’t originally planned on going, but now he’d definitely be there.

  
  


—————

  
  


Until the following evening, Zuko couldn’t get his mind off of the woman’s words. 

  
  


_ “One cried for someone to listen. And the other listened.” _

  
  


I listened. I listened to her story and her words — each note, I fully, truly listened. 

  
  


Her name. What was her name? Zuko tugged at his hair, a chunk that was drooping down in front of his eyes. A citrus color peaked in through the wooden-rimmed window of his room, blinding his eyes. He turned away, walking to his desk situated by the door. His eyes fluttered across the chipped paint, looking for a leather journal. 

  
  


When his eyes spotted the leather material, and his hands grasped onto it, he wrote. Word after word came sputtering out and soon, he had numerous chapters of a dreamy, irresistible story. 

  
  


_ Waves washed against the rocky shores, threatening to wash away any remains of who she was. She fell and fell and kept on falling — for so long, she was just ticking away until the moment she hit rock and died. Though she screamed and cried, no one heard. The sun set and thunder struck; the end was near.  _

  
  


_ But near isn’t now. And a hand reached out, grasping her gently. She was okay. She wasn’t alone. Someone heard her screams, and they cried with her.  _

  
  


_ And together, they cried. _

  
  


—————

  
  


**4 Romantic Pieces, Op.75, B. 150: I. Allegro**

  
  


It was the night of the ball. The sun had long past set and the sky was flushed in hues of midnight purple. The stars were entangled in so many strange ways, if you looked close enough, you could see words that spoke memories.

  
  


Zuko felt tense, but at the same time so very loose. Like a rope, rough and callusing edges but sturdy and built. He was nervous yet there was this consistent rush of adrenaline pumping through his veins, entirely enticing him. 

  
  


Zuko was a writer. A poet to some. He spoke so many words and he wrote even more. But for the past few months, with a seemingly rough relationship between him and Yuuma, he felt uninspired. Everything in his life was dreary or constant — or both. And now, a gorgeous spring day arose in the middle of winter. Her hair like flowers and her breath like the kiss of a light spring breeze. She was stunning, each movement she would make shone importance, but moreover the notes she played — the words she shared and stories she told — they were imposingly inescapable. Her presence twirled him in and he was spinning and spinning.

  
  


She was the change. She was the inspiration he’d been searching for. And what he didn’t know, was that she was also the love he so desperately needed.

  
  


—————

  
  


Her eyes skimmed the room as she played, her notes were deep and dreamy, but seemingly distant. She was distracted — sight drifting from one face to another. She searched for a man with sharp features, cat-like eyes but with the slightest softness to them, a slight drag of his left foot when he walked — and the scar. A dreadful sight but something intriguing to the woman. She couldn’t help but wonder: How did he get it? Was he born with it? Did it hurt? She didn’t care much about that but rather the  _ story _ behind it. The meaning. 

  
  


Eventually she gave up her search for him, resuming focus to each note and its intonation. The sound of her stories panged against one wall and then hit each other wall, painting story after story on the walls. 

  
  


_ A girl, drifting with a tumbleweed, unable to escape its thorny grasp. _

  
  


_ A boy sad and unscarred, scorched by pressure. _

  
  


_ The world is never in our control. We can’t change the way things happen, but we can choose why they happen. _

  
  
  


—————

  
  


“Hi. You look nice.”

  
  


The woman jumped, nearly spilling her punch. At the sight of him, a small smile twinged onto her face — though, she quickly dismissed it.

  
  


“You made it.”

  
  


He smiled, taking note of her reaction to his presence. “Yeah. I did,” he said, his voice smooth and even, a slight croak in his words.

  
  


The girl nodded, taking another sip from her drink.

  
  


“Your name, could you tell me it?”

  
  


She nodded, brushing a piece of hair out of her face. “Mai, like the season or in Japanese the word gloomy, though it’s spelled differently.” 

  
  


“I see. My name is Zuko.”

  
  


She nodded again, twirling the golden ring on her finger. “Zuko… like the writer?”

  
  


He smiled a knowing smile, reciprocating her words from yesterday, “I suppose.”

  
  


Mai’s eyes widened a bit. “You wrote  _ Steadying The Endless Showers _ ?” 

  
  


The slight tinge of surprise and excitement that lingered in her words made Zuko smirk a bit but also raise an eyebrow in surprise.“Yeah, I did. You’ve read it?”

  
  


Mai smiled a bit, “I loved it. The way you described depression and feeling isolated with the entire world around you — it was so  _ right _ . When I read it, you put all these emotions I was feeling into words so perfectly,” she paused for a moment, “I cried while I read it. It was so powerful.” 

  
  


Zuko nodded, “That’s how I feel when I hear you play. You put all these feelings and words into music and for the few moments that you play, I’m completely encased in the story you’re telling.” 

  
  


Mai nodded again, “Do you want to go somewhere else? I can play you a song.” 

  
  


Zuko smiled, clearing his throat, “Yeah. I’d like that.” 

  
  



End file.
